


Connect Four

by Badendchan



Series: The Happy Huntresses Deluxe Season Pass -- (Exclusive DLC Content!) [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Trans Character, Coming Out, Did You Know: Atlas Sucks Actually, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Internalized Transphobia, Misgendering, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-Canon, Seducing Closeted Girls Into Becoming Socialist Rebels, Trans Female Character, Worried Mama Bird Accidentally Cracks An Egg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29404326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badendchan/pseuds/Badendchan
Summary: 'Three plus one'doesn’t always equalFour.Three Mantle natives, and an Atlesian elite. Three independent Huntresses-in-training, and one future Military Specialist. Three romantic partners, and the odd-one-out. Three girls, and a guy. From the outside, that’s just how it looks – an insurmountable divide – but not everyone’s happy to leave the equation unsolved. When years of mounting pressure finally come to a head one dark, dreary night at Atlas Academy, an unexpected discovery kickstarts a team’s efforts to welcome their fourth member into the fold… From acceptance, to support, to maybe, just maybe, falling a little bit in love.(Very Happy Huntresses-in-progress, Academy-Era.)
Relationships: Fiona Thyme/Joanna Greenleaf, Fiona Thyme/May Marigold, Joanna Greenleaf/May Marigold, Robyn Hill/Fiona Thyme, Robyn Hill/Joanna Greenleaf, Robyn Hill/May Marigold, Robyn Hill/May Marigold/Fiona Thyme/Joanna Greenleaf
Series: The Happy Huntresses Deluxe Season Pass -- (Exclusive DLC Content!) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030677
Comments: 31
Kudos: 57





	1. No Man's Land

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Far better people than I have written this exact same fic, but the brainworms have me in their thrall, and cobbling this mess together is the only way to get 'em out, y'know?
> 
> I'm not 100% placing my bets on the Happy Huntresses *canonically* having been in the same school year, much less on the same team, but eh, in the absence of actual lore, that's just how this fic is shaking out. The girls're in the same school year, but nowhere near the same ages; May's the only one actually privileged enough to have afforded the bloated application fees the first year she was eligible, the others took longer to climb up to the city in the sky.
> 
> Brace for a lot of May misgendering - even coming from herself, at first - while she starts to break out of her shell, and lets her invisible self be seen. _No deadnames tho because bleugh._

_Tap._

_Ta-ta-tap._

_Ta-ta-ta-tap. Ta-ta-ta-tap. Ta-ta-ta-tap._

“...arigold.”

_Ta-ta-ta-tap. Ta-ta-ta-tap._

**“Mister Marigold.”**

Fingers fidgeting in their boredom go still, the drumming cut short.

Wincing in discomfort, a student in the back of the class turns away from his vigil – staring out the window into the dark, drab Atlas skyline – brushes the shaggy blue hair out of his eyes, and faces front.

“Whilst your grades throughout this semester have been impeccable enough to explain your apparent disinterest, it would be _appreciated_ that you not allow it to disrupt the focus of your peers.”

Without even waiting for the mumbled apology, the graying Professor Pumice resumes rattling on up by the hard-light holo-display at the head of the classroom, in the hurry expected of a stodgy man wringing all he can out of his twilight years.

There’s little lesson left, mostly briefing the third-year _Special Operations Advanced Placement_ students on assignments looming in the coming days.

“Field missions for next week’s Midterm Practicals will be scheduled overnight from Thursday into Friday; your other instructors will be advised of your absences, so do remember to acquire your coursework ahead of time. Dust will be supplied, though all advanced blends must be cleared with the quartermaster.”

With military precision – _because how ELSE do they do anything here at this godsforsaken academy_ – the grainy, deprecated audio of a bell-chime sounds from the PA system just as Pumice concludes his spiel.

“Class is dismissed. Miss Ginger, if you’ll wait a moment – I’d still like to speak with you about your proposed weaponry alterations...”

The room erupts into a cacophony of scooting chair legs, rustling papers, and no few exclamations of joy for the end of their extended school day, as the majority of students pack up their books and make themselves scarce.

Getting up seems like a chore, but all the cool kids are doing it.

 _‘Mister Marigold’_ isn’t in as much of a hurry, but even with the long-standing reputation for moody brooding, sticking around in a fugue’s only going to invite unwanted questions – Not really a huge fan of those.

Books are shuffled off into an academy-issue schoolbag, rumples are smoothed out of a standard, starchy academy-issue boy’s uniform, and a course is set for… not here. Not here is a good enough place to be.

Except, that’s a decidedly Schnee-brand throat-clearing coming from behind, cutting short his escape. _Figures._

“Marigold. I trust that you–“

Thus accosted, he stops in the doorway and spins, scooting offside to let a pair of giggling schoolgirls through.

It’s fairly obvious what this is about, anyway; reasons why Winter Schnee would be nagging without prior provocation are typically pretty predictable. Their shared background among the Atlas Elite somehow made them Group Project Partners By Default ever since their _“considerable potential”_ got them cherry-picked for this exclusive preparatory course.

_Bullshit. The skill-assessment algorithms didn’t have a damned thing to do with putting them on Ironwood’s short list for grooming. Just their surnames and semblances._

“Hold your thoroughbred horses, Winny. Already turned everything in. Even annotated the bibliography all by my lonesome – _You’re welcome._ ”

Rolling her eyes at the recurring, sophomoric nickname, Winter clasps her hands behind her back in her irritatingly perfect, professional posture, and nods curtly.

“I… I see. I simply wished to confirm you’d done so before the deadline. I’d rather avoid a repeat of last month.”

“We still got an A!”

Winter fixes him with a milk-curdling look – the _‘Not An A-Plus’_ is implicit. “I’ve _also_ overheard you’ve been routinely absent from your team’s scheduled blocks in the training hall. _Again._ ”

“Ooh, been stalking me? Careful, people might start to get ideas about us.” Marigold’s not in a smiling mood, but sassing about their parents’ poorly-veiled past efforts to pair them up is good for a freebie.

“Hardly. It doesn’t matter much to me if the competition is slacking in their group training for Vytal – I’d welcome the easier victory – but if it should effect our performance in the field next week, then it becomes _my_ problem.”

“And we don’t have enough of those already,” Marigold says dryly. “Y’know, we’re still top percentile for a _reason._ I’d tell you to chill, but the only challenge out there’ll be not freezing our asses off.”

“I will ‘chill’ when you attend a few sessions in the meantime for my peace of mind.” Her drastically unreasonable demands made, the fellow trainee lingers, having already taken after the awkward conversational dismounts of her idol, dear General Ironwood himself. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. Good evening, then.”

“Hmph. Same to you, Schnee.”

Winter steps around and saunters out into the halls, not so crowded now that basic classes have been adjourned for a few hours now. Possibly off to brown-nose aforementioned Headmaster, or sniff out opportunities for extra credit to shore up her qualifications... as if they aren’t both already shoo-ins for AceOp commissions the instant they graduate.

Though, in all fairness, she’s not the only one reluctant to return to their dorm.

* * *

Ever since it was discovered that a certain member of a certain team would routinely be held up obscenely late every Friday for Specialist-Prep classes, Fridays eventually defaulted to _Girls’ Night_ in their extended absence – free time for planning dates without having to accommodate the straggler.

Marigold would happen to be that team member. His hesitation to intrude on the three happily-committed huntresses having yet another fun hangout session or… or _makeout session,_ or whatever, is what finds him taking the longest, most superfluous, most labyrinthine path through the otherwise clear-cut Academy campus to get back to the dormitory block.

On and off, he pops his invisibility semblance, vanishing into thin air as he drifts through crowds like an aimless ghost, shimmering back into place in deserted passages and shadowed stairwells.

Coming around into the silent, monochrome halls of Grimm Sciences from the much louder Engineering wing, he finds an empty stretch of wide, wall-length window, and with a lack of traffic passing through, plops down onto the vacant bench by the opposite wall.

Just… staring, some more. Out into the darkened gloom of stormclouds lit with light pollution. Because it’s just been that _profanely gray_ kind of day, the sort where the meteorological phenomena decide to run a tag-team in perfect sync with the specific level of misery in store.

The snow’s falling fierce this evening, and that’s even factoring in Upper Atlas’ specialized climate control; Mantle below must be getting pelted with a full-on blizzard, sweeping under the edges of the skybound city to hammer the heating grid. The clouds’ve stayed the same dark gunmetal shade, give or take a filter of deep, murky blue as the sun behind them subsides.

Marigold can relate.

He’s had a bad feeling today. Granted, he’s had an ongoing ‘bad feeling’ for a long, long time, but– No, a _specific, premonitory_ feeling. Like something’s coming to a head, and soon. Where every little stressor he fails to dodge is running out the clock, and sooner or later he’ll be forced over the top of the trench – _muddy, bleak, and under constant barrage_ – to meet his fate in _no-man’s land._

And alright, maybe, _maybe_ that’s just the recent cram-study on Great War military history getting to him and spurring his imagination, but it still feels apt as all hell.

Starting with an unwanted letter from home first thing in the morning – right after sleeping through his first alarm – to a humiliating fumble during midmorning spars, skipping lunch to avoid the crowded cafeteria, double-homework from Advanced Dust Application, then Pumice hitting them with the threat of tests out in the tundra, the day’s been doing its damnedest to lean its weight onto the monolith already pressing down on Marigold’s chest, about to crack him open.

A whole-ass monolith of an existential crisis – not that he’d be willing to call it that. One that’s been slowly building, brick by brick by boulder, for years. Longer than he can even remember the specifics, truthfully; that twinge of _wrong_ feels like it’s always been roiling under his skin and rotting away.

And gods so help anyone who says he should bring it up to the Academy counselors; he doesn’t even want to think about it. Acknowledging it makes the feeling worse, puts screws to the brain. Like one of those fae from old-world folklore, granting it a name gives it power. So… he doesn’t.

Doesn’t really feel like being looked at right now, either. Doesn’t want to be acknowledged.

Hell, being _perceived in any way_ is grating.

And inasmuch as being back in the safe confines of one’s own living space might be a load of anxiety off the mind, the fact that living space means being surrounded in close quarters by three beautiful girls, laughing and joking and just… getting to _be,_ getting to _live,_ is really, really not going to help. Not right now.

Not with all that’s been on his mind. All he’s wished he could make sense of.

Might’ve been better to stay invisible, though, regardless of the drain on his aura – Marigold’s pried from his thoughts as an upper-echelon Atlas Military officer passes through, giving a nod in acknowledgment. “Evening, young man!”

Even as it scours his insides like a shot of detergent, he’s obliged to toss up the mandatory salute so the soldier’ll just keep on walking, and won’t stop to be a hassle. Once the man’s goose-stepped along his merry way, Marigold’s arm drops, and he heaves a sigh.

_Fine._

Fine, he’ll just… just swing by the dorm for a minute, drop off the schoolbag, change into some warmer, thicker, baggier clothes, and scram. Go out into the city, find somewhere else to sit and think. Invisible, if he has to be. Maybe even if he doesn’t.

* * *

Okay, maybe _going in_ is a more challenging prospect than he’d thought.

When one puts their mind to it, it’s only a ten minute walk and a short elevator ride to get to the dormitory wing from just about anywhere on campus, unless you’re up in one of the outer towers.

So, _logically,_ there should be no reason why, nigh on half an hour later, a student who set out on this ten minute journey has yet to arrive at their destination, instead pacing back, forth, and back again along the length of the hallway, occasionally stopping to lean on a windowsill and pretending to be reading their scroll.

_The hell is your problem? It’s no different from any other Friday. From any other ‘Girls’ Night.’ You always barge in and sour the mood every week, even earlier than this. Just man up and– Fuck. No. Just… just suck it up and go. You live there, too._

A door’s mechanical swish sounds halfway down the hall as Marigold makes another loop, and a purplish-haired head pops out. That prissy diva, Hilda… no, Helga Veilchen, from VLIT.

_Of course it had to be; because Veilchen’s in SpecOps prep too – meaning she can guess EXACTLY how long he’s been skulking around while she made the walk like a sane person._

“Uh, did you, like… lose your scroll or something?” she asks. “We heard someone stomping around for _a while now,_ and...”

Because of course that’s what anyone would think. Why ELSE would somebody be pacing loops like a jackass outside their own room for so long, unless they’d lost their scroll and couldn’t use their ID to unlock the door. No. No, he didn’t lose his scroll. He lost his _nerve_ is what.

Helga pinches her brows at the lack of response, and continues trying to be somewhat helpful. “Because, like, you could always go borrow the faculty keycard from the janitor?”

Coughing to try and clear a rasp from his throat, Marigold shakes his head and waves a definitely-not-missing scroll in the air. “Thanks, but I’ve got it. Don’t worry about me.”

That’s… huh. Helga doesn’t exactly know what to think about _why_ the weirdo emo boy from down the hall is wasting good weekend time wandering the halls like a stalker at this hour of evening, but… this is literally as involved as she cares to get.

“Oh. Um, whatever? See you in class, I guess...”

The door to VLIT’s space zips shut, and Marigold’s forehead clonks against the wall just adjacent the one for his own team.

_Fuck it. Into no-man’s-land it is._

* * *

“Draw three,” says Robyn.

Fiona pouts. “I’m breaking up with you.”

“Didn’t you already break up with me over breakfast?”

“Teeeechnically, yes! But–“

Before Fiona can give a well-reasoned explanation to their current, flip-flopping state of togetherness, the door into the team’s dorm emits a _Beep-pa-beep CLICK,_ and slides open.

In shyly steps the haggard fourth member of their team, while the three already in attendance turn to greet them.

Seems this week was more hang-out than make-out. From the looks of it, Robyn and Fiona’ve changed into their pajamas and been thrashing each other at _some_ sort of Crater-rules card game, with the draw and play piles laid out across Joanna’s abs, whilst she lazes out on the floor in nothing but the shorts and sports bra she uses for gym.

Robyn’s the first to react, clapping her hands together and announcing: “Why, Future Specialist Marigold graces us with his presence! ...Guess that’s a wrap on Girls’ Night, folks – _And not just because I’m still four cards up and need an out._ ”

Fiona giggles and sneakily returns a pair of cards to the pile while their leader’s distracted, and Joanna simply returns to tapping at her scroll. Jokes aside, none of the girls actually seem particularly fazed by the intruder in their midst.

 _Just an intruder who never belonged with them. Or at home, really. Belonged anywhere. A wolf in sheep’s cl–_ Wait, no. Fiona. _A fox in the henhouse. There, better analogy._

Marigold hangs his head, blue bangs falling over his eyes, and shuffles around the trio to pitch his schoolbag onto the bottom-left bunk along the wall. “No, I’m just… gonna get a change of clothes, and I’ll go. Don’t let me ruin it for you.”

Because no matter how lightheartedly Robyn had said it, no matter her blatant sarcasm, her easygoing smirk, the charming wink… 

_It still **hurts.**_

_This is why he shouldn’t have come back so soon. Or maybe at all. ‘At all’ sounds fine too._

“Sure, you could scurry off, if you want. Unless…”

Already halfway to the bathroom with the rattiest, most worn-out, oversized hoodie he owns, Marigold’s stopped short by the sound of their leader thinking aloud.

Only when he turns is he startled to find that Robyn’s never once pried her gaze away, not since that initial jab.

Contrary to popular belief, Robyn Hill possesses more than just a keen archer’s eye and the charisma of a habitual flirt: As a woman often ostracized for her capacity to root out the truth wherever it hides – even _before_ her lie-detection semblance was in play – her life ‘til now’s provided her plenty of practice honing the craft of reading subtle cues of body language, the undertones of replies.

And she can absolutely tell _something’s up._ That something’s different, his guard lower than normal.

“...Unless you’d like to join us. No reason Girls’ Night can’t run a little longer this week, right?”

_What?_

“Tssh, don’t give him _that_ look, or he’ll think we wanna eat him alive,” Joanna snorts, briefly glancing between the two before resuming her scroll-game.

He can’t help the subtle tensing of his features at the wording. The _particular phrasing._ And it’s more than obvious Robyn spots it too: the split-second that brows furrow, lips tighten, compared to seeming so astounded – hopeful? – seconds before.

This is a bad idea, phenomenally so. He already doesn’t want to think about… _about things,_ about the discomfort that’s been drowning him, and Robyn’s starting to look an awful lot like a hound on his scent.

There’s an unusual air in the room tonight.

He should _really, really go,_ even if he has nowhere else to be. Even if this isn’t one of the weekends designated for a mandatory return to the Marigold family estate. Even if he can’t pull another all-nighter in the library without raising suspicions.

But… damn it, he wants to stay, even though he shouldn’t, even though that gut feeling of an imminent catastrophe’s riding close behind, and that’s got him frozen like a deer in the headlights. That’s enough of an opening for Robyn’s coy smile to return, and for her to reach across her girlfriend-slash-card-table to pat her _other_ girlfriend on the shoulder.

“Fiona, sweetheart. I believe we _might_ need another round of refreshments, if you’d be so kind?”

Beaming, Fiona snaps into an intentionally lopsided botch of the Atlas military salute, already drawing on her semblance to materialize a cooler right out of her other hand. “Aye-aye, captain!”

“Hey, I never said I was _going to_ stay. What makes you think I’d want to… hang around you lovebirds while you...”

Three sets of eyes spear Marigold to the wall. Not even angrily, not annoyed, just… incredulous. Disbelieving in the most amused and _petty_ fashion.

‘ _Who are you kidding?’_ they seem to ask. _‘For whom, pray tell, is this performance?’_

“...W-whatever, just don’t leave me with some shitty beer,” he gripes, hauling his change of clothes into the bathroom and bumping the door most of the way shut.

Joanna cups a hand to her mouth and calls after him. “We got nothin’ on tap any worse than the last time _YOU_ handled our drinks! With your nasty meat-tea!”

The door cracks back open an inch. “Excuse me for TRYING to share a bit of FINE CULTURE!”

“It tasted like homeopathic hot dog water!”

“That was _Lapsang Souchong,_ and I didn’t even get a thank-you!”

The door slams to a chorus of laughter from the girls in varying levels of boisterousness.

Joanna neatly pulls the cluttered stacks of cards off her rippled midsection and rolls up into a hunch. “M’surprised we got a yes. Is it just me, or has Little Prince been keeping his distance even more than usual these days? ...Which is _saying something._ ”

“No, yeah, it’s weird, right? He never used to have a problem hanging out with us! Like, did we do something wrong?” Fiona gives Joanna a meaningful look, then to Robyn as well. “Is… is it because we’re all three dating now? ...’cuz Joanna joined us like, half a year ago, and it didn’t feel like _that_ changed anything…!”

“I don’t think it’s us, Lambchop,” Robyn notes seriously, angling to give her faunus girlfriend’s ear a quick, affectionate rub. “Seems like something else has been gnawing at our resident rich boy’s heels, and I, for one, don’t like what I’m seeing.”

“He wasn’t missing practice as much there for a while, but now...”

Absently shuffling the decks of cards for wont of something to do, Joanna lets her voice drop. “More than practice. You notice he’s been skipping meals again? And not just lunch.”

This doesn’t exactly surprise Robyn. “He already vents to us about his parents, we’d know if they’d done something new. Think someone’s been bullying him?”

Joanna shrugs. “I dunno, maybe? I sure haven’t seen it.”

“No way,” Fiona disagrees with a sullen certainty. “I _know_ the bullies around here. He’s got too big of a family name, if they were bullying him, it’d have to be with something big enough we’d see.”

Fiona unfortunately ‘ _knows’_ far too many bullies for the rest of their liking, but the point still stands. Being higher on the social hierarchy grants that kind of immunity, being elevated above stolen bookbags or lunch money shakedowns. Instances of harassment between this school’s upper-crustiest heirs and heiresses that escalate beyond petty, two-faced passive-aggressiveness are rare, but loud, bloody, and brutal to match; the kind that sinks entire family reputations. If someone had dropped that kind of payload on Marigold already, they wouldn’t be whispering about it, wondering whether it happened at all.

Robyn sighs, habitually flexing the fingers of her right hand. “All I know is that I’m spying a lot of red flags. I won’t pry out anything that doesn’t _want_ out, but... I’ve got half a mind to find out why.”

* * *

To Marigold’s relief, there’s no terrible-tasting bargain beer on tap tonight. Mostly hard lemonade, butterscotch schnapps, a cheap bottle of ros _é_ wine Fiona produced, only to pack away again for a future date night… immediately thereafter passing around some even-cheaper 12-ounce novelty cans of bubbly from very same brand. _‘The bottle’s the romantic part,’_ apparently. No one really has a logical counterargument.

None among the team are heavy drinkers – _booze habits cost money_ – and never indulge too deeply on a regular basis, which sits just fine with Marigold. For starters, he doubts he’d managed to inherit the absurd alcohol tolerance of his socialite parents, but more crucially… the thought of becoming so inebriated he’d start to talk _a little too freely_ about _things he shouldn’t_ is always a latent fear.

But that shouldn’t be a problem tonight, _right…?_ Just a comfortable buzz, that’s all it is, enough to help take the edge off, and gods, does he need it. So what if he’s had a bit more than the others? They were probably already cracking into the cooler when they were alone together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Maybe _one more._

The ongoing card game is resumed with a new player dealt in, but cut short due to rampant cheating. Any reprimands are soon put on hold due to displays of excessive cuteness from a devious fluffy-haired faunus; abusing her adorability to get away with illicit acts is swiftly declared a form of cheating, too.

From there, the main event continues to shift wildly. For as much as Fiona’s semblance is a boon for storage in their cramped living area, stowing board games in a pocket dimension carries the frequent unfortunate side-effect of loose pieces going missing in the endless abyss, only retrieved months after the fact. As such, Checkers is the best they can muster, and for Huntsman Academy students in their twenties, that gets old before the first round’s through.

There’s jack-squat on Atlesian television to watch together on the holo-projector, so bogarting Marigold’s premium streaming subscription is a must. It’s difficult to pick something to settle on, and somewhere after Robyn finishes a compelling ethics rant about commercialized faunus sexploitation flipping through the porno pay-per-views, the rest unilaterally vote for razzing on a campy old B-movie collection. Too lazy to make the trip to the kitchen in the dorm commons, someone _– clearly not their faultless, intrepid leader who has NEVER made an embarrassingly bad call in her life_ – jokes about using fire dust granules to make the popcorn.

_Coincidental safety tip: keeping a foam-based fire extinguisher in one’s pocket dimension is always a sensible idea. Forgetting about the heat differentials for diluted civilian dust and pure military-grade crystal is not._

Half an hour into picking apart overdone film tropes, Fiona tries to drag things back on course with a sly suggestion of Truth-or-Dare, all the while giving Robyn an elbow nudge, but is swiftly overruled. Too on-the-nose; that’s best saved for a more whimsical night, and Joanna’s pick of Never-Have-I-Ever is similarly scrubbed. Marigold’s starting to look a tiny bit tipsy, and kicking off a drinking game at this point could turn things real unhealthy, real fast.

 _...Actually, come to think of it, Marigold’s been quiet for a while now._ So caught up in the usual chaos of their hangouts, the girls forgot to keep up with their routine ‘having fun?’ check-ins with their fourth member. In such a short amount of time unattended, their Little Prince has grown unfocused, nursing the dregs of someone else’s margarita and slipping back into the burrow of his thoughts.

“Hey,” Fiona asks, shimmy-scooting on her butt back to where Marigold’s slumped against the bunks. “You alright?”

“Wish I could… Could do this all the time…” he hiccups, never once looking up from his knees.

The faunus looks taken aback; what’s that supposed to mean? Marigold _already_ hangs out with them all the time – or used to, anyway – they’re a team, they share the same dorm, for crying out loud!

“Hey, nobody ever said you couldn’t! Like, calling Fridays ‘Girls’ Night’ was our fun little gimmick, but we always like having you here, just like any day of the week! Now it’ll just be… Pfft, Girls-and-Singular- _Guy’s_ Night!”

_Stop saying it like that, it hurts._

“...Huh? What hurts?”

_Well, fuck. Unmitigated, wholesale **fuck**. That wasn’t supposed to be out loud._

“There it is again,” Joanna comments, in a low, wary voice. “He looks like you kicked him in the–“

She skids to a stop, cued by another instance of the very same unsubtle wince she’d spotted in the first place. Even without Robyn’s uncanny talent, she’s still sussed it out.

Marigold’s head snaps up to find the three girls now staring over with abject concern. Worry, even? No, suspicion. _It’s suspicion. They’re going to know, and they can’t know, fuck, they can’t, not now. It was so nice to pretend, it could have been so nice..._

“Actually, we’ve…” Robyn steadies herself, crawling to complete the impromptu semi-circle around the odd-one-out. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

_The ongoing level of **fuck** has grown by magnitudes._

“So… so what, is this whole thing all just some kind of intervention?” Marigold stammers, arms folded, knees in, curling into himself like a pillbug. Honey-hued eyes flick between the three primary threats, a bit on the glassy side, or… wet? Why would they be wet?

Joanna leans an elbow on her knee, cheek smushed against her fist. “No, dumbass. We’re your team, we’re your friends, and you’re acting like something’s hurting you. You think we’re gonna stand for that? Even if that something’s us?”

 _They wouldn’t understand._ “...It’s not you.”

Robyn gives Joanna an appreciative smile, then cranks its softness scale up to eleven as she knee-walks even closer to the fretful lump of oversized sweatshirt, nudging an empty bag of nacho cheesy-chips out of the way.

“Alright, then let’s figure this out together. You’ve been isolating yourself a lot more lately – even by your _usual_ standards.” She speaks slowly and surely, dispatching with her constant charm and wit, and moving straight into _sincerity mode._

“...But it couldn’t’ve been because you felt excluded from hanging out with us in general; you’ve done that plenty, and you know you’ve always been welcome. So, there was something else about it. Something particular.”

Gods, it _really is_ like she’s trying to play detective. Feels like Robyn should be pacing around a dimly-lit sitting room in a deerstalker hat, smoking a bubble-pipe and pinning a murder culprit instead of putting him on trial for the crime of _Apparently Being Too Visibly Angsty._

“Like when we said certain stuff?” Fiona adds. “I don’t know what it was, but… but something was bugging you bad, you can just tell us!”

_No, no he can’t. He can’t, gods damn it..._

The internal monologue leaks out of his brain again, verbally transformed into sludgey muttering into his sleeve. The others don’t make out much else but _‘can’t’_ and the flourish of profanity.

Picking up where she’d left off, Robyn ducks a bit to try and meet Marigold’s wavering eyes. She spotted the twitches, the bitter quirks, the grimaces. She’s stringing clues together with red string on a mental corkboard. “And those _certain things_ that were said… They _tended_ to be about our little Girls Night routine, or when someone called you–“

“Don’t…!”

Robyn blinks.

“It’s… don’t. I can’t. It’s…” Marigold doesn’t physically have the capability to hunker any deeper without bodily transforming into an armadillo, arms wrapped around his knees, but he’s giving it his best shot. “It’s too hard to talk about, it’s wrong, I don’t… I don’t know how to say it… It’s just… it’ll fuck things up, and…”

No one says a word. And when Marigold dares glance up again, the first thing he catches is the sight of Robyn’s hand, arm loosely extended, offered palm up. Inviting. Welcoming.

While Academy staff had registered it as ‘Lie Detection’ for official documentation, Robyn has never been so small-minded about her semblance; she’s found it can be so much more than a measure for finding falsehoods, or a bellwether for intent. Not just a tool to rip the truth from another, but a tool to help seek a truth inside of oneself, to try and talk themselves through their thoughts – no matter how confused and strained, no matter what subconscious social preconceptions rise up to beat them down – with the light of her semblance as their guiding compass.

“Hey. I’m not ordering you, I’m not even telling you that you _should._ It’s all your choice, here. But, if you want to try… If you think it might help work out what you mean to say, help us understand, then...”

Damn it. This is _so_ like her. Just so… insufferably smooth whenever she’s not being infuriatingly coy, calming when she’s not being cocky, and knowing just what to say on the rare occasion it _actually_ matters. This is going to go so fucking wrong.

_So bail already. They can’t find you with your Semblance on. Just go, just get out of here. There’s no way they’d – this isn’t the right time, it’s not safe. You could lose everything._

A wounded animal walking right into the snare, Marigold still takes the hand. Fingers tenderly interlinked, they begin to glow with Robyn’s semblance.

“I don’t… like being like this.”

There’s a little spritz of yellowish-green sparks amid the baseline lilac of Robyn’s aura, but they’re soon to fade. “Easy, easy. You know how this works. Vague won’t cut it. Just take your time, clear as you can.”

“I never have, as long as I can remember. And it just… gets worse, every year, and I can’t stop the feeling...”

The color comes in a little brighter, a little bolder – Confirms it’s definitely a longterm problem, not just something new coming out of left field.

“It’s… The way you see me. The way everyone sees me.”

Still on the right course; the color of their linked auras is in a holding pattern.

“Sees you how?” asks Fiona.

“That you’re… what, just some spoiled rich boy?” Joanna tosses in. “A bit of a brat sometimes?”

Almost hissing, Marigold shakes their head, messy blue locks fluttering up a storm. “Nngh–! See, that! That’s what I’m talking about…!”

“Rich? Brat?”

_“BOY!”_

…

**Shit.**

A heavy quiet holds court in their humble dorm, and all eyes fall hard on the joined hands, glowing a constant green. That was it. That was the trigger, the pressure point.

Robyn’s shattering heart breaks the silence. _“Marigold…”_ she whispers. _“Oh, hon.”_

Behind her, the other two fare no better in the heart-breakage department. Fiona and Joanna link eyes, the latter uncharacteristically humbled, evidently feeling guilty for accidentally jabbing a thumb into the now-obvious bruise, but no less awed at the reluctant reveal. Fiona personally seems to be trying very, _very_ hard not to launch herself bodily into their trembling teammate for a hug.

Said trembler is trembling a whole lot harder, eyes wide and growing frantic as the words spill out of them in a flood, tripping between truth and the terror of rejection. The panicked urge to go invisible is mounting rapidly.

“I-I’m… I’m not… a guy. I don’t… I never was, I mean. I don’t think, at least. _Fuck._ _Fuck, I can’t…_ No, this is wrong, just – Just forget I said anything, I’m drunk, okay? I’m drunk, that’s why I’m saying all this stupid shit…”

Robyn still doesn’t let go, no matter how much the hand in hers is tensing tight. “You _know_ how my semblance works. Wouldn’t be giving a good read if you were too far gone. You’re fine. It’s gonna be fine. Just breathe.”

 _Breathing is technically occurring,_ in all fairness, but it’s too uneven, too shallow and shaky for comfort. As Robyn keeps holding out the lifeline, Fiona’s self-control falters, and she goes ahead and rushes in for a tight embrace from the side.

Immediately, she has second thoughts; probably should have asked if it was alright to touch right now, but it… _does_ seem to be slowing down the jitters. She makes a nonsensical hand gesture over to Joanna, who floats her a thumbs-up and crawls over to steady Marigold from their other side. It’s more of a hand-on-shoulder than a proper hug, but it’s something, and that something seems to help.

“Now, when you say you’re not a _guy,_ ” Robyn carefully probes, “are we talking… not feeling like much of anything, or feeling like you’re…?”

 _Guess there’s no helping it, now. It’s already game-over._ Marigold lifts their head an inch up out from their elbow, lets their knees drift to the side. “Think I might... be a girl.”

 ** _Green._** Fuzzy, but constant green, lighting their hands. That’s pretty godsdamned damning right there.

Sniffling as they – _as **she**_ – stares deep into the fluorescence, she’s struck with an impulse. Just to test the boundaries of the experiment, she tries to backtrack: “I’m… a guy?”

Her teammates’ eyebrows furrow at her, then at the brief spurt of frizzy, jagged, spiky red prickling their glowing lilac link, before it settles back to its base shade. _Nope._

“...Girl.” A ping, right back to green.

Robyn heaves a breathless laugh, but one carrying no small amount of relief. “I know you all forget, but this DOES still burn aura, so if you’re through using me as an incredibly attractive Magic 8-Ball, maybe we can move along? Well, unless...”

 _Unless?_ Another unless? The LAST ‘unless’ is what got them all into this mess!

But clear apprehensions aside – the dread that the shoe’s about to drop and the bomb’s ready to blow – nobody’s started spewing vitriol _just_ yet. No hitting. No hating.

“Unless we wanna try for one more. One last little question before we call it a night.”

Robyn isn’t leering at Marigold, isn’t horrified, isn’t as absolutely aghast as she has all rights to be. She’s still just smiling that captivating, guileless smile.

“How about it, wanna go for a two-fer? ...Try us on a name.”

Admittedly, Robyn’s mildly aware this might be expecting too much, too fast, as this whole evening’s been a bit of a chaotic emotional clusterfuck, but so long as they’ve got this much momentum, so long as there’s a chance it might help the fledgling in her flock… Maybe she can afford the risky move.

“My name is–“

Marigold chokes up on the reflexive response, trained into her for a lifetime. Wrong. That’s not it, and never was. From the left, Joanna squeezes her shoulder and gives her a nod. From the right, Fiona tightens her clumsy hug, one sheep-ear skimming her shoulder.

“No, my name’s… My name’s _May._ ”

The delay’s only a second in real-time, but for all gathered in attendance, the suspension stretches it wide, a silent drumroll before the lucent aura tinges truest green. Answers a question May hadn’t even been consciously confident about herself, until now. Now, it all comes together.

“Well, whaddya know. _May Marigold._ ” Robyn releases May’s hand, the residual connection of their shining auras twinkling back out of sight. Giving her fingers a firm shake and popping a knuckle or two, she can’t help letting that serene smile crack right back to her trademark smirk. “Pretty name, for a pretty girl.”

Quickly catching onto the effort to dredge the mood back up from the frigid pits of deep-seated, long-fought identity crises, Joanna adjusts her hold to give May a bit of a noogie. “You know she’s a girl for all of sixty seconds, and you’re already flirting? In front of the ones you’re already dating, no less? Tch. For shame, Robbie.”

Not even addressing the _heretofore inconceivable notion of her exclusively gay team captain even theoretically flirting with her,_ May protests the prior point. “It’s not that pretty! It was just… it’s just what I’d been feeling like using, to have the alliteration and shit, if I ever ended up… but, it’s not that great, I should–“

“Nope, no takebacks!” Fiona chirps, finally loosening her cuddly-soft vicegrip so she can scoot back and look at May from up front. “Er, unless you actually _wanna_ change it later, but, y’know, that kinda ruins the bit, so…”

Joanna stretches over to lightly poke her faunus girlfriend’s temple, with a sappy whisper of “Smooth,” before getting back to the bluenette. “Explains why you always hammer hard on using your last name instead, and considering how much you hate your parents, that’s... Wait, do they…?”

“What, are you kidding? No. Brothers, no.” Another shadow of dread drags May’s features down. “They’d… Think about everything I’ve _ever_ told you about them, right? How pissed they were I picked the Academy over business school? Act like I need to quarantine after breathing the same air as a Mantler? _Real_ open-minded folks. Fun thought experiment: Imagine what they’d do to me if they found out their precious little heir is… is this.” She gestures to the whole of herself, rather unkindly.

Robyn busies herself by clearing away some of the cracker crumbs and crumpled cans she can reach without bothering to stand. “So, on that note – _total shot in the dark here,_ but I’m gonna assume we’re keeping this on the down low, indefinitely.”

“Do you WANT me to get disowned? Pulled out of the Academy? They can’t know, _ever._ ”

If it would get May away from those wealth-drunk vipers she calls Mom ‘n Dad, Robyn MIGHT say yes, but she can’t be so crass; can’t joke about a team member’s safety like that...

“Gotcha. Though, it’s a bit of a shame we can’t correct the record; Blaze owes me money with three years interest.”

Fiona pulls a spare roll of plastic garbage bags from her semblance-void, and tears one out for Robyn to load up with the clutter. “Blaise, like blonde Blaise downstairs?”

“No, no, Blaze-with-a-Z. Bet me Ⱡ50 my _indomitable lesbian magnetism_ couldn’t net me an all-girl team way back at initiation.” Robyn snorts proudly. “Looks like I still played him for a chump, now didn’t I?”

Still beyond bewildered at the fact nobody’s tried to shove her out the door just yet, May lets her posture go slack, brushing her messy bangs back into place. “So, you’re all… Seriously, you’re all really okay with this?”

If there were crickets in the dorm, they’d be chirping.

“Should we… NOT be?” asks Joanna.

May’s hands clench reflexively, gripping at air, grasping at straws. “Fuck, I don’t know, maybe? Doesn’t it bug you even a little?”

“What bugs me a little,” Robyn darts in, with a shake of the can-laden trashbag for emphasis, “is that you’d think we’d ever flip on you. When I say this team is like my family, I mean it.”

Fiona gives a chittering laugh behind her hand. “Except for the part where you’re sleeping with half of them, right?”

“...Ahem. And unlike your caviar-swilling birthgivers, I’d like to think we’ll be supportive of our freshly-hatched Bluebird.”

It’s far from the first time Robyn’s tried to stick her with that nickname, which really makes it clash with the ‘newborn’ metaphor, but truth be told, May’s too dazed, too mildly inebriated, and too emotionally shot to nitpick her captain’s semantics.

Too sleepy as well. May’s been an insomniac as long as she can remember, but tonight the siren call of her bunk is crisp and clear. It seems to be a general consensus, with the remainder all giving her encouraging grins, but lulling in unison.

“That’s… Okay. Okay. I get it, we’re… It’s all good. But can we, uh… Can we save the rest of that ‘supporting’ until tomorrow, because…?”

Robyn’s laugh is short, but hearty. “I suppose you’re right. We did have _quite_ the productive evening. Postpone the talking ‘til we’ve had some sleep.” She ties off the trashbag of various party-leavings and chucks it over near the wastebin by the door. “Let’s put a lid on this one, ladies. Captain’s orders.”

_Ladies, huh? Plural, containing all parties in attendance. No tacked-on caveats, no exceptions. No ‘Ladies-and-gentleman.’_

That’s a new one. Shiny. Fresh. May likes it.

While she lays slumped against the wall of bunk alcoves, lost in contemplation, the others busy themselves with the minutiae of prepping for bed. Fiona flicks off the long-abandoned TV projector and sucks it up into her palm. Robyn and Joanna elbow each other the whole way to the bathroom, and continue flirting thereafter throughout brushing their teeth.

It’s astounding, perplexing, and _honestly kinda fucked_ that such a monumental paradigm shift for May’s entire life just thwipped by in the blink of an eye, and the daily routine rolls right on regardless. How are they like this, making it so effortless to accept her as… _her?_ Being welcoming toward diversity in species and ethnicity is one thing, but this is a different Grimm entirely! Did they know people like her down in Mantle, is it more common there? Or is it just the upbringing that does it, the closeness of a community who can’t survive while holding petty fundamentalist grudges? She has so many questions for them, but only a fraction of those she knows she’ll be bombarded with come morning.

Morning, though. Maybe she doesn’t need to get ready for bed; what’re the odds she’s dreaming even now, and when her dream-bubble pops, she’ll wake to a world where her teammates aren’t absolute saints?

...Meh. If she’s going to spiral back into her worries, the least she can do is swaddle up in her blankets, first. She hops herself out of her roly-poly crouch, bones creaking, and angles herself in a general bathroom direction.

By the time she’s done tending to her own hygiene and steps back out, the lights have been flicked, and toothpaste-flavored kisses are being exchanged between the trio of girlfriends.

She’d say _‘get a room,’_ but… this is the only room they’ve got.

Maybe she’s still a bit jealous, standing there, watching them and their collective warmth, but… It’s not as overbearing tonight. She might not be one of them _like that,_ but she’s… she’s more _one of them_ than she’d been a few hours ago.

That’s something, isn’t it?

Each huntress finishes handling their miscellaneous affairs – scrolls plugged into chargers, night creams applied – and soon are gravitating to their respective bunks.

May settles into her space on the bottom-left with a flop, completely oblivious to the nefarious plans of her upstairs neighbor.

Having already paid her nightly dues to her paramours, Robyn can’t help but feel she’s leaving May out in the cold, and so soon after the grand revelation! That, _in her humble, yet always-entirely-correct opinion,_ cannot stand. Everyone should feel included!

There’s a knock-knock against the frame of the bunks, a ‘Psst,’ and a curious May rolls to the edge of her bed, craning her neck to look above.

Robyn, the insatiable, inveterate rogue that she is, simply cannot help herself. All aglow in the gentle moonlight sneaking through the curtains, loose hair framing her face, she flashes a gigawatt smile, a paralyzing wink, and murmurs, _“G’night, **Princess.** ”_

_May Marigold’s heart vaults into her throat and sticks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry about... whatever that was. I dunno what this is. It's probably nothing.
> 
> Probably not the best idea to try to brute force my already-amateur self through writer's block, but, y'know. What else am I even doin' with my life, right? Maybe-hopefully I'll get the temporary requisite mojo to clumsily push this thing towards a happy (huntress) ending.
> 
> And hey, sidebar? Ugh, why the frick's it so impossible to come up with an Academy team name for these girls? Far, far, FAR better Happy Huntress-content writers than me have come up with the *only* couple of decent, color-rule-adherent names for an Academy-Era Happy Huntress team, 'n I don't wanna steal 'em, especially when I'm already kind of being a nuisance mucking around with my filthy hands all over the ship. Only other name I could come up with isn't color-related and I don't necessarily wanna fall into that faux-pas, y'know?
> 
> ...Oh, well. It is what it is.


	2. Much Ado about Meddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spurred by the new knowledge about her mopiest team member, Robyn can't help but to meddle some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i dunno.

**_THOOM._ **

Robyn Hill’s been feeling a little vexed, lately.

**_THOOM._ **

And okay, she’s vexed on a regular, routine basis, this isn’t news to anyone. For instance, her perpetual backburner boil over the disgusting state of inequality and in justice in this miserable frostbitten country? That’s always vexing! But that’s not this.

**_THOOM._ **

Also, she’s pretty vexed by the combat class curriculum demanding biannual weapons proficiency drills across the board, with all military regulation weapon styles – Yes, she can handle a rifle with crack-shot accuracy, if she needs to! No, she’d rather avoid it, because it’s a pain in the ass! _Or the shoulder. Mainly the shoulder right now, damn._ You can tell the recoil on these things is made for the drones, literal and figurative.

“Yeowch, Hill. I’ve literally seen you split arrows before, how’d you even miss? I swear you _curved_ the bullet.”

“Watch it, Overbite, some of us–“

 **THOOM.** _Cha-chikk._

“–prefer a weapon with finesse.”

But no, the most recent addition to Robyn’s cluttered vexpile is the past and present state of one particular member of her team, turning her world on its head as of last Friday night. Hence, her recent sleuthing, asking around their other classmates about Marigold’s history.

“Thought it’s because you’re too broke to buy bullets.”

_“It can be both things!”_

Take for example, Odie Hrossvalr, the stout, fair-haired walrus faunus in the practice range’s next slot over. His subspecies trait, the long, sharpened tusks that jut down a few inches past his jawline, have gotten him erroneously tarred with the brush of being ‘Half-Sabyr’ by racist burnouts coincidentally failing Grimm Taxonomy. Overall, an okay guy, if a bit of a showoff. You get used to the lisp.

Robyn’s got an hour with him for Advanced Marksmanship, and he’s friends with Fiona, but most pertinently, he and May’ve got some mind-numbing Wilderness Survivalism class block together in the mornings, when none of the other girls can keep an eye on her.

“But, seriously, you haven’t seen… _anything_ else strange happen with Marigold? No family gossip making the rounds, no notable bullies, no drama, no… incidents that stand out? Hasn’t fainted in class again, nothing?“

**_THOOM._ **

“Nope. I don’t know what to tell ya. Besides the low aura baseline, he’s seemed fine by me, but... it’s not like he ever talks much in the first place? At the end of the day, you’re his team, you know him better than I do.”

The lieutenant left overseeing the drill session calls out a five minute warning, and the trainees scuttle. Practice rifles re-racked, dust packed back in the proper reservoirs, targets tidied up. Odie clears up his space and gives Robyn a weak grin as he takes off.

“Sorry I couldn’t help, though. And hey, when you talk to Fiona – Faunus Fellowship’s meeting got canceled for this month, so let her know, okay? Later!”

“Yeah, yeah, will do. Take care.”

* * *

_‘You know him better than I do.’_

Robyn _thought_ she knew May.

She’s always had a knack for getting a good read on people. She’d figured that three years living, learning, and fighting together was enough time to figure Marigold out, know all her ins and outs, how best to help, how best to manage her needs as a team leader.

Now, though… ever since last weekend – ever since May’s coming-out – Robyn’s been left at a loss. How this actually snuck up on her, she’s got no clue. It’s like every past event, every single quirk or habit or anecdote, has been given a crucial piece of critical context she’d inexplicably, _humiliatingly_ missed, which now casts the last _three years,_ their entire relationship to this point, in a new light entirely.

And it hadn’t always been the chummiest relationship, either – Robyn’s been realizing, in retrospect, just how overly-skeptical she’d been, back in the beginning.

After finally scrounging up the enrollment fees and running the red-tape gauntlet of initiation, making it under the cut her very last year before being aged out of eligibility – before ‘remedial programs’ were her only recourse for a license – Robyn had _prayed_ she’d be done a small mercy of a bearable partner on a half-decent team. Maybe that cutie-pie sheep faunus with whom she’d been trading sly looks all the way through the testing period, or the tall, hunky girl with the green hair and nifty facial markings… they were both from back home, they’d be in her corner, right?

On one hand, she’d gotten the sheep and the hunk – she can thank the All-Knowing Assignment Systems for that much, at least – but being partnered to some stuffy, upjumped Atlesian billionaire’s brat for the next four years of her life instead of EITHER of her fellow Mantlers wasn’t how she’d dreamed the dice would land. He’d already scuttled her hopes for a female four-stack with his presence, and he’d probably spend their entire education cold-shouldering them for being under-city trash, then bail on them to become just another hard-assed Military Huntsman.

_...So, that was a little presumptuous. More than a little. Okay, a lot. Sorry, May._

But then again, Marigold had to get snapped up into that stupid, exclusive class track for grooming the General’s prospective future Specialists, so what ELSE was Robyn supposed to think at first?

And hey, in her defense, spending a year sarcastically dubbing the students of _SpecOps: Advanced Placement_ ‘SOAP Scum’ was too good of a crack to pass up – C’mon, it’s witty! And what in the hell was the board thinking with that name? Acronyms, fellas, ever heard of ‘em? – until the ice began started to break around their mysterious Marigold before long.

It’s not as if Robyn were outright _jealous_ or anything – Pride’s a dangerous drug to get addicted to down in Mantle, a luxury for which most can’t afford to pay the price, and besides, she’d rather go skinny dipping off the Solitas coast than ever suit up in service to the Military. That’s not why it bugged her, it’s just…

Atlas loves to stress their students with public grade postings, so she’d SEEN the numbers – Seen ‘Robyn Hill’ tacked right up there in the highest echelons, trading paint with Marigold and Schnee – yet despite Ironwood’s continued obsession with overseeing her progress, with calling her in for ‘counseling,’ despite his effusive praise for her hard work, she’s never even been _offered_ that same shot at preliminary placement, to give her the _unparalleled joy_ at shooting him down!

At first she thought it was just the reek of Mantle on her, while May was squeaky clean, but... no, there’d been Mantle-born specialists in the past. That's what made her switch up her viewpoint, honed on the same two things that ALWAYS keep her at arms length – Her _‘untenable issues with authority,’_ and her semblance – the ultimate double-edged sword if Ironwood can’t guarantee absolute loyalty. If he can ‘educate’ the baby socialist out of her by the end of fourth year, enthrall her, indoctrinate her, the Atlas Military could hold the power to wring truth out of any dubiously detained suspect they pleased.

But if Robyn had a mind of her own, _a single drop of doubt,_ she could rob him blind. Pry whatever state secrets she wished from the most privileged minds and highest-ranking officers in the Kingdom. Maybe she's a conspiracy theorist, maybe she's tooting a bit too much on her own horn, but... Ironwood is a self-assured, pragmatic ass, not a complete idiot.

Meanwhile, May – well, ‘Marigold’ – has always been a mite less _disruptive._ A troubled prodigy with a dangerous selflessness born of nigh-nonexistent self-worth, raised and steeped in the pompous culture of the Atlesian aristocracy, craving validation and a place to belong, and with the power of _short-to-wide-range invisibility projection,_ of all things? Of course she’s a prime candidate for the General’s personal, not-so-secret Secret Police project. Break her in, and the military’ll be sneaking their very own black-bag squads through city streets in broad daylight, and _literally_ disappearing people on a whim.

All the more reason for Robyn to never let that happen. All the more reason for her team to win this little game of tug-of-war, and make sure _Special Operative Marigold_ never comes to be.

In those first years, they’d settled for feeling out her motivations, and finding she wasn’t all as gung-ho about The Establishment as they’d feared. But back then, she’d still been so convinced that she could be ‘one of the good ones,’ and ‘change the system from the inside,’ and the three of them had to pin back the urge to laugh right in her face. May’d meant well those times she said it, but… She hasn’t _lived_ Mantle.

May hasn’t watched the military police turn a blind eye to its suffering from down at ground level. Hasn’t watched the armored boot of an Atlas trooper come down on the skull of a teenage faunus, handcuffed face-down in the slush, all for fitting a _profile._ Hasn’t seen the crackdowns on the Crater. Watched the military budget skyrocket while civic infrastructure down below crumbles, and responses to Grimm incursions grow slower by the year.

Robyn, for one, is not going to let her partner go off gargling boot-polish, not after all the time they’ve shared together, and _especially_ not if it means spending the rest of her life hiding what she’s only just unveiled to her team. They’re going to give her a home, to give her the support she’d never truly get out of an ironed uniform and Ironwood’s praise.

When it comes to what all’d been ailing May, sure, that bit of drastic action last weekend helped find the hidden wound she’d desperately concealed, but just knowing about it isn’t going to magically make it all better.

They still need to suture it up, stop the bleeding, apply some anesthetic to ease things up – the short term necessaries. Help undo some of the immediate damage done suffering it in silence, make sure she’s not compromising her health with more self-sabotage.

Then comes disinfecting. Long-term oversight. Making sure she feels like sticking with them. That she doesn’t go hiding her hurts from them again, not when they could help.

Okay, okay, the medical metaphor’s flimsy – _especially applied to a huntress with an activated aura and years of practice channeling it for healing_ – but… but it’s a work in progress!

And maybe, _maybe_ Robyn’s obsessing a bit. _Maybe_ her ego’s taken a wild sucker-punch for not noticing sooner, for not putting the _pretty obvious_ pieces together about her partner, and saving three extra years of grief for the four of them. She just can’t get it out of her head, the contrast of one short night – How utterly defeated May’d been, before surrendering a hard-held truth, how shocked that they didn’t... what, immediately suddenly start verbally abusing her? Kick her out of the room, make her start sleeping on the common room couches? Spam it all over the Academy’s CCTS bulletin? _This team is my family,_ Robyn’s said a thousand-some times. Is that sort of thing normal for a family, in May’s eyes?

_...And the fuck kind of family are the Marigolds, to let her feel that way?_

To hell with them, though. As far as she’s concerned, May’s part of her flock, and from the talks they’ve had in recent days, she knows her girlfriends agree.

* * *

Robyn’s ruminating occupies her ‘til she hits the cafeteria. It’s only a short trek from the range, which means it’s not that long she has to loiter in line smothering in the smells of the ‘luxury’ dishes outside her meticulous budget.

The stipend of lien on her account from the basic student scholarship’ll never leave her wanting for food in general, but it’s always a daily reminder of her _place_ in society waiting in line for mashed potatoes and late-late-breakfast biscuits, while the wealthy pick over their lobster and wagyu beef. She’ll concede the point these are still biscuits ‘n potatoes prepared _by a high-class culinary staff_ , but the aftertaste of insult is still baked into the poor-people plates.

May’s absence is deeply felt as always; she’s been the one to grab the team some classier cuisine to pass around. No cheesecake slice today.

Having apparently been divested of their usual table by an energetic horde of first-years, Robyn stakes her claim on a spot over by the massive glass windows at the far end of the mess hall. Joanna’s fast to find her at the new rendezvous point, but she has to wave Fiona down as the sheep faunus aimlessly wanders a bit in search of her friends, ears wiggling worriedly.

“Fi! Get over here. I’m calling a meeting.”

“Meeting? Oh, is this a team meeting? Should I get M–“ Fiona catches herself at the last second, cranking the knob down to a whisper as she settles in with her tray. “Should I go find May?”

“Nope, just a good old fashioned Girlfriend meeting. Plus, she and the rest of _Advanced Jackbooting 301_ already packed up for the airships third period. They’ve got that whole hide-‘n-seek game out in the mountains for Midterms.”

“It’s ‘ _search-and-destroy,’_ Robs,” mumbles Joanna, around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

Same difference! Robyn shrugs off the unconstructive criticism and sallies forth. “I got a good view of the landing pads from Aura Theory, so I saw her ship out. _Guess_ who she’s paired up with. Just guess.”

“Is it Wint–“

“Of course it’s Winter Schnee! …And, sure, a pair of underclassmen I didn’t know, but… _Schnee.”_ She growls the name as if it’s personally responsible for running over her grandmother with a snowplow. “They act like they can’t stand each other, but they’re always shacked up, any class they’re both in. You don’t think those two’re…?”

Joanna breaks off a bit of her sausage-and-egg biscuit to dunk in her potatoes and gravy. “Not a chance. Still say Schnee’s got a raging _will-they-won’t-they_ with that one senior. The pissy mohawk chick, you know who I mean. Seriously, the way they look at each other after a match? That’s _hatefuck_ energy.”

“So, like, the same Robyn gave YOU after the first time you floored her?”

Fiona receives a crumb flicked into her forehead for her sassy – if shamefully accurate – quip, but that’s as far as the food fight goes; Mantlers know better than most not to waste whatever’s edible.

Robyn calls the meeting back to order with the rap of a fork against her tray.

“BUT! ...But I digress. While _fresh hot goss_ is always tantalizing, that’s not why I’ve arranged this crucial meeting of the minds.”

“Finally.” Fiona bleps her little pink tongue. Robyn resists the temptation to lurch across the table and kiss it.

“I’m thinking about tomorrow. _Girls’ Night’s_ always been rolled in with _Date Night_ ever since we both crushed on _this_ beefcake over here…” And at this point, Robyn unsubtly grabs for Joanna’s hard-earned bicep and gives a teasing squeeze. The beefcake rolls her eyes, but a grin cracks its way through.

“But, _that_ was when _Girls_ was synonymous with _Girlfriends._ Now…”

Fiona finishes a hearty chug from her drink carton, coming out sporting an adorable milk-moustache. “Oh! Now there’s May! ...Right.”

“Exactly. And to top it off, she’s got no uppity Spec-Ops circlejerk tomorrow night; she’ll have the rest of the day free once they fly her back in. And I know we already had plans: hook us an airship for a ride down home to Mantle, make a date of it–”

It’s a cinch to follow their leader’s line of logic. Joanna finishes up her biscuit and brushes some crumbs off the lapels of her uniform. “But now, you wanna take her along.”

“I’m leaving it up to you two whether you’d want to lose some private time over this, but…”

Brazenly abusing her privilege as captain – or possibly, just to further annoy her girlfriend – Robyn steals a scoop of Joanna’s leftover gravy-soaked potatoes.

“Mm. Look, I feel bad about last week. I’d _hope_ she’s better off in the long run, not having to hide it around the three of us, but… Going right back to calling her… **_that_** around everyone else, acting like nothing happened? We only just made some headway, I don’t want her backsliding.”

Fiona, in the meantime, slyly sucks up Robyn’s sprinkle-studded dessert brownie into her palm. “I know, it’s awful. I get we’ve gotta do it to keep her safe, but still!”

“Which brings me back around to my _cunning plan._ What say we smuggle our dear dreary May down home for an evening, and see if we can crack that shell a little further?” Robyn clears her throat. “Maybe scope ourselves out a store with a safe enough changing room, and… have ourselves a little dress-up? Try and give her one nice night, the way things should be, if she didn’t have to worry about _all this._ ”

A certain sheep faunus’ ovine ears wiggle with glee. “Oh my gods. We could give her a _May_ -keover!”

“Not to rain on your parade here, but d’you even think she’s interested in pulling a stunt like that?” Joanna adds flatly, sobering up the group. “You saw how terrified she was about us finding out. Or, shit, she might just be too tired after screwing around in the tundra all night t’wanna go anywhere.”

Only now does Robyn notice the conspicuous absence of her precious brownie – one of the cheapest desserts affordable on the grand hierarchy of lunch menu options, no less! – and levels a scolding gaze at the coyly grinning Fiona before moving on.

“There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there? We’ve still got time to feel out some plans for ourselves, make a few contingencies… Can text her tonight once she’s through playing stealth commando.”

Fiona fidgets with her milk carton, popping the tab open and closed. “Hope she says yes…”

“So do I, Lambchop. With how long she’d been keeping scarce on us… we’ve got a lot of lost time to _make-up_ for.”

The table falls deathly silent, despite the lunchroom din.

“...Uh, wait, was that– Were you trying to make another ‘May’ pun? Like May-ke up? Because I kinda already just did that?”

“What, no! ‘Make up’ and ‘make-up!’ For her face? Jo, back me up here! Clean delivery, right?”

Jo, her constant backup, does not back her up. _The heartless, humorless philistine that she is!_

When her _undeniably brilliant_ wordplay’s given lackluster reviews, Robyn asserts her maturity as the eldest by blowing both her girlfriends a terse raspberry.

“My point is, we can come up with any old excuse to get her out of our hair whenever we wanna do date-stuff and get frisky. This is different – And don’t you two tell me it wouldn’t be fun to see if this won’t loosen her up just a little bit more. Maybe let us see the real her.”

Joanna chuckles. “Alright, alright, I’m in. I’d pay good money to see her trying heels for the first time. And on the iced-up pavement, too...”

“That’s good!” says Robyn. “Beeeecause we might still have to chip in for a few things here ‘n there. Anything from stores she wouldn’t be able to bluff to Mom ‘n Pop Marigold about if they ever scrape her accounts. She can pay us back springing for everything else.”

“What _would_ fit her, even? Like, what are her sizes?” Fiona wonders aloud. “It’s not like we ever asked.”

“It’s not like we ever had a reason to ask.” Joanna notes, with an increasingly sinister grin. “Unless you’re volunteering to take her measurements? You’re the only one small enough we could stuff in a changing booth with ‘er.”

Fiona pinkens, and struggles to stretch far enough to play-bop her buffest girlfriend on the head. “S-shut up! And don’t act like _you_ wouldn’t get embarrassed too! ...In fact, maybe I’ll just have her steal your clothes! All you tall people probably fit the same!”

Joanna, for all her bluster, stumbles over the momentary picture of a sleepy May wobbling around the dorm in nothing but a nightshirt pinched from her collection, some worn-out band tee with a stretched neckline slipping off a shoulder, May drowsily rubbing at her eye with a hand lost in a too-long sleeve – _Shit._

Robyn doesn’t intervene immediately; watching her loves lovingly fillet one another is one of her favorite shows. Still, they can’t afford to get too distracted, and it’s both bad taste and a total waste to make jokes about a scantily-clad May without the selfsame girl in attendance to fuss up a storm.

“Anyway! ...On the chance she isn’t interested, isn’t comfortable, or isn’t up for anything but flopping into bed tomorrow, let’s brainstorm some simple stuff we can do around the dorm.”

Robyn can already see Fiona starting to sink into her seat, so it does her heart good to watch the faunus bounce right back with a smile once she delivers the “But – But, in the case she is… Let’s plan ourselves a nice night on the town, shall we?”

* * *

May’s fucking freezing.

Her remaining aura might stave off frostbite, but it’s still unpleasant. And sure, she could _theoretically_ crawl a bit closer towards the trashcan fire the other trainees have set up in the center of the old warehouse, or crack into the bag of disposable heating pads, but that means being _around people,_ or making noise that draws attention, and she’s only just gotten some quiet time to herself by volunteering to keep first watch.

By the end of the day, they’d seized their target objective with little fanfare, herself and her temporary team for the Specialist-course practical exam.

The obligatory matchup of herself and Winter had been rounded out with a pair of freshmen, instructed to study the older students. Feasibly, an exercise for the younger pair in following orders, and the older set in giving them. In reality, an unhelpful, leaderless mess, with a distinct skew in skill levels.

Deployed before _any_ of them could have a proper lunch, the various ‘strike teams’ were chucked out of moving airships over the mountains, each assigned their own area of operations. As per the Professor’s rant, they’d seized a series of small outposts, then using the clues left therein, triangulated the position of the trashy abandoned SDC warehouse gussied up as an enemy base.

Final orders: Clear hostiles, capture and hold the nonspecific high-value target – _A dirty bomb? A stolen drone AI core gone berserk? Who cares!_ – from further fake soldiers, or _real_ Grimm _,_ until retrieval the following morning. And rather than drag actual soldiers into the mix and limit the students to nonlethal force, the ‘OpFor’ is once again composed of rusty tin soldiers.

Apparently, retrofitting an entire surplus battalion of outdated AK-90 drones with bulky, experimental, state-of-the-art thermal detection scanners just because _one_ student in the testing pool happens to have an outright invisibility semblance still isn’t worth the bump in the Academy budget.

Ergo, rather than crafting a sharp strategy on the fly to execute with tremendous professional precision, the final portion of the exam boiled down to sheer boredom; May maintaining her invisibility field, whilst the trainees lazily wandered from guard to guard, wedging weapons into neck-joints or power couplings with all the vim and vigor of a senior citizens’ bingo night.

Hell, they didn’t even have to use any _Dust._

Only reason they can’t crack into the supply to get a few extra bonfires going is because Winter’s gotten herself convinced they might all get double-bonus cherry-on-top marks and a fun sticker on their after-action report if they show they’ve completed their task with minimal resource expenditure.

Not like anybody’ll be able to tell if it’s boneheaded or brilliant ‘til Professor Pumice flies through for pickup at sunrise, _which… at this time of year…_

Ugh, Brothers above, they’ll be here ‘til _10AM,_ at least. Screw the restrictions on loadout gear, May should’ve brought, like… a fucking _book,_ or at least coursework for another class. Between the cracked moon’s light flooding through the far wall’s line of high windows, or the smaller rip in the rusty, corrugated metal wall she’s using as a sniper’s perch, she wouldn’t have a problem seeing.

At least she’s got a bit of space, now. Winter’s designated first-year has had the sense to mind her own business, but this _Amin_ kid they’d stuck her with is a bit too thirsty for praise and validation, in a way May _staunchly refuses to acknowledge_ is a possible reflection on a certain shard of her subconscious.

_That, and he kept calling her ‘sir’ every other breath, which, like… fuck that, obviously?_

She’d been half-inclined to snap and gripe at the guy to stop following her around like a damn puppy-dog, ‘til she remembered his wagging tail. Scrubbed _that_ euphemism pretty quick; Fiona’d have her ass for that one if she ever found out, accidental faux pas or otherwise.

_Huh. Fiona. Wonder if she’s still up. If any of the team’s still up._

Maybe she could text them just to see? May fiddles around in her pocket for her scroll, and failing that, around under the edges of her improvised canvas bedroll to find where it’d fallen. _There it is._ She can’t kill time with any games or make any actual calls, not if she wants the battery to last ‘til the operation’s over, but texting her friends won’t hurt, yeah?

Could even ask if… they’d wanna, like, do anything tomorrow. Just anything. Something to make up for the mind-numbing of this last week, the stress, this whole pain-in-the-ass examina–

**Bzzz! Bzzz!**

_Sweet fucking gods, don’t startle a girl like that!_

She realizes she must’ve grunted while otherwise making a dumbass of herself fumbling her scroll, because there’s an immediate rustling half the room away: that dog faunus guy shooting up and alert so fast he’s tossed his uniform beret right off onto the cement.

“See something out there, sir?” calls Marrow Amin, too damn earnestly to get _that_ pissed at him. He’s already reaching for his weapon by the time May waves him off.

“Nngh… No. Go back to sleep.” May pinches the bridge of her nose and rubs it. “Or… ‘guarding the objective,’ or whatever.”

Ah, the objective, the all-important pile of uniform metal crates tagged with neon yellow safety paint and tracking beacons. _Because a stray Arctic Beowolf is gonna be so interested in that, and they still haven’t seen a single round of ‘reinforcements’ from the drones._

Amin has the fucking gall – or innocence, or gallnocence, to salute her. “Affirmative, sir!” _Stoppit. Stop. Cease._ “Returning to, uh! Returning to task!”

May’s pretty sure the only reason he’s quieting down instead of pursuing the matter is because that other first-year’s hissing something gritty and grousey at him for waking her up, and Winter’s wintry gaze is the icing on that cake.

Whatever, time to see what the buzz was about.

**[Robyn’s_Roost]** – CURRENT CHANNEL: [#Chat]

>>[MamaBird]: Hey. @LittleBoyBlue

MamaBird has sent a _PING!_

>>[MamaBird]: Actually wait, hold on

MamaBird has changed user @ _LittleBoyBlue_ -> @ _Mayflower_

>>[BoPeep]: lmao

>>[Mayflower]: What? Excuse you, what?

>>[MamaBird]: You had a whole week to change it yourself! Too late, executive action.

>>[Tiny]: Heh. Its cute

>>[Mayflower]: Don’t encourage this, Jo.

>>[BoPeep]: i know what im calling her from now on!

>>[Mayflower]: I could strangle all of you and make it look like an act of the gods.

>>[MamaBird]: No threatening my datemates, sourpuss. By the by, you got any plans tomorrow night?

>>[Mayflower]: I refuse to dignify that nickname with an answer. Also, no. I don’t.

>>[MamaBird]: Great! So, you wouldn’t have any objections to, say…

>>[BoPeep]: coming down 2 mantle to hang w/ us and letting us dress you up super pretty???

>>[MamaBird]: An experimental outing to explor-

>>[MamaBird]: Nevermind, she already covered it.

>>[Tiny]: Subtle, Fi.

May recoils like the words themselves’ve stung her face, and she’s pretty sure she can feel her team’s eyes staring expectantly at her, straight through the screen of her scroll.

It’s not a disdain for the notion, no. Not when she’d only just been craving plans, craving distraction, something to look forward to and help cull her traitorous thoughts. It’s that instinctive fear of vulnerability, of discovery, of inevitable humiliation. The fear of being set up and pranked, of having her entire life blown apart over this small, frail, hidden part of herself.

But that’s just the reflex.

This last week, her team’s been more than conscientious, if a bit clumsy in their questioning, trying to feel out just what she’s comfortable with in the confines of their dorm. She’s seen the genuine regret in their eyes the times they’ve stumbled over remembering her real name in private, and the bitter disdain for the state of society each time they’re forced to misname her on purpose in public.

Now, they want to bring her down to their home again, and make her feel more at home _in herself._

And besides… she’s known these girls for three years, now. The first might’ve been a rough adjustment period, but… she’d trust them with her life. Trusts them with something even more important than her life, in fact: her true self. Maybe it _really is_ just a Mantle thing to be so strangely accepting… And brave. And hot, and–

Fuck it.

Fuck it, she’s _going._

She’s already exhausted. And even assuming her racing mind and restless, shitty body lets her tap out for a few winks in between now and the airship exfil, she’ll probably need another nap facedown in her bunk back on campus.

But the thought of spending some time down in the increasingly-familiar streets of Mantle with her three favorite people on Remnant, actually getting to dress, to act, to live the sort of way she’s spent long, lonely nights dreaming she could?

Even if the warning lights in the back of her brain are blaring, even if she knows there’s a threat they could stumble into someone who’d recognize her… This one’s a risk worth taking.

May stumbles out of her fugue and thumbs at her scroll, catching up on the message log she’s missed in the meantime.

>>[BoPeep]: may? you still there?

>>[Tiny]: See, you killed her

>>[Mayflower]: Fine.

>>[BoPeep]: yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!

>>[Mayflower]: But won’t I be fourth-wheeling your date?

>>[MamaBird]: Four wheels? We get bumped up from being a tricycle, I see no downsides here.

>>[Tiny]: And if we want to make out you can just turn around

>>[Mayflower]: With how loud you swap spit, I’ll have to cover my ears, too.

>>[BoPeep]: we just wanna have you along!

>>[BoPeep]: its always fun when we get to take you back home with us!

>>[Tiny]: I’ll second that

>>[MamaBird]: Thirded, naturally. Hold up why is it giving me the typo squiggles on thirded?

>>[MamaBird]: Seconded is a word, why not thirded? I’m calling bull.

May is helpless to prevent the stupid snort of silent laughter that escapes her, the fondness for her team and their ridiculousness filling her up with enough heat to forget about her freezing extremities. Being wanted is something special.

Fixated on her scroll, she doesn’t even catch the approach of her provisional partner until her personal bubble is popped.

“Something amusing?” Winter dryly asks, in as jovial a tone as one can ever expect of a Schnee. May grows acutely aware of the stupid smile she’d allowed to curl her lips, and promptly scraps it, stowing her scroll before it can be read. Winter withdraws her own and taps at the alarms she’s set.

“It’s time for next watch. If we’ve seen no reinforcements as of yet, I’ve got doubt they’re saving them for the early morning hours, when we’ve presumably lowered our guard.” She regards May with a sort of commiseration, gesturing to her slipshod setup by the crack in the wall. “I’ll be taking over, so you should rest. Ideally, somewhere without a _subzero draft?_ ”

That’s as close to ‘I don’t want you catching a cold’ May’ll be getting, so she takes it… Albeit not without the slathering of sarcasm obligatory to their relationship. “So sweet of you to care, Winny,” she remarks as she stands, bundling up her bedroll and stalking off. She doesn’t need to look back to feel how hard she’s being flipped off. “Have a nice shift.”

The ‘somewhere without a draft’ ends up being the warehouse control center, up a flight of rickety rust-red metal stairs to the second level. Once, underpaid middle-managers loitered here to overlook even worse-paid Mantlers breaking their backs hauling crates of Dust. Now it’s just May and a pair of the AK-90’s they’d busted up for the exam, which she swiftly kicks into the corner to make space for her bedroll.

Dropping roughly onto the canvas, May sets her rucksack at the end to serve as a cushion, but first unzips the thing. She rummages out a handful of disposable heating pads, and begins the cumbersome process of cracking them open, giving them a shake, and quickly stuffing the things into the underlayer of her clothes – pockets, gloves, small of the back… screw it, a pair for the boots, too. Not like anyone’s going to nag her about littering the place up with the packaging.

As she finally lets her head fall to rest against her rucksack-pillow, her pocket vibrates again. Another scroll alert? The ping message didn’t have their stupid jokey usernames, so it’s not from their group chat. Must be private.

**[Direct Message]** @Marigold ←→ @RobynHill

>>[RobynHill]: Truth be told, the whole thing was my idea.

>>[RobynHill]: So don’t feel pressured to do it just because Fi’s thrilled as can be.

>>[RobynHill]: Still okay to say no if you’re not comfortable, I can break it to the others.

>>[Marigold]: Trying to get rid of me already?

>>[Marigold]: I said I’d go, so I’m going. I wanted something to do, anyway, so. Whatever.

>>[RobynHill]: Well, my semblance won’t work over the scroll, so I’m taking your word for it.

>>[RobynHill]: We’re about to tuck in over here. I can’t keep watch and nag if you don’t sleep, so...

>>[RobynHill]: Just get some when you can. Goodnight, Princess.

Forget the trashcan fires and heating pads, the burning in May’s face could heat the whole warehouse by its lonesome.

It’s no fair – it was always just a begrudging jab at her wealthy upbringing and her slot as the youngest back when it was ‘Little Prince!’ The kind she’d roll her eyes at! But now that it’s ‘Princess,’ why’s it striking her to the core and turning all her battle-hardened emotional defenses to pudding?

This… she can’t let this happen.

Even if her teammates’ve been exceedingly chill about the situation… _catching feelings_ is just stupid, just an easy way to get hurt. They’d never, not with her. She’s always stifled any such thoughts before, no reason to stop now.

_Ugh. Crap. Calm down, play it cool. Deflect._

>>[Marigold]: Again? Thought I was ‘Mayflower’ now.

>>[RobynHill]: Shush, you know you love it.

...If she admits to it, she’s screwed. If she admits she doesn’t half-mind the thought of being Robyn’s princess – being Fi and Jo’s princess too, for that matter – she’s signing her own death warrant here and now. But if she bluffs, she’ll get called on it; she’s up against an infuriatingly captivating human lie detector.

There’s no choice, no other options in such dire straits. May engages in a daring maneuver of subtle psychological warfare, as befitting a top student of SpecOps Prep!

>>[Marigold]: ...

>>[Marigold]: Good night.

[@Marigold is now OFFLINE.]

May stuffs her scroll into the pocket of her coat, rolls onto her side, and buries her face in her hands.

_Gods, she’s fucking doomed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so 'writer's block' has just evolved into forgetting how to write at all. just. entirely. can't get words down anymore. nowhere near the old pace.  
> dunno what could be contributing to it  
> aside from the constant, pervasive sense of worthlessness, exacerbated abandonment issues, deteriorating physical health...  
> it's a mystery, folks, a real stumper, a real blues clues toughie.


	3. Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not the first time Marigold's been down to Mantle, but it IS the first time for May.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably shouldn't be posting this yet but maybe no longer being able to edit'll make me work on the next one  
> ...whatever, first half of their Mantle trip with some Fiona POV slipped in there.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” grumbles May, arms flung tightly around herself. They’re still up in climate-controlled Atlas, waiting at the Academy airship docks, so it’s likely a streak of nerves that’s ailing her moreso than the wind chill.

“Ah-ah-ah! You made it official, remember?” Fiona says brightly, whipping a piece of paper from her semblance and flapping it in the air between them.

Scrawled on a sheet torn straight from her school notebooks is a dubious recreation of a legal document, jotted down in Fiona’s handwriting with forest-green ink.

_[I, MAY MARIGOLD, being of sound mind and body and stuff, do fully and wholeheartedly agree to go down to Mantle to have fun and buy cute clothes and get some tasty dinner and just have a good time with my best friends, FIONA THYME, JOANNA GREENLEAF, and ROBYN HILL, under penalty of making ~~us~~ them sad if ~~you~~ I don’t.]_

...The signature at the bottom is, in its entirety, illegible. A drunken, one-eyed mine prospector would possess neater penmanship. Unsurprising, being as Fiona’d forced the thing under May’s hand only a minute after her stumbling, sleep-deprived return to the dorm just before lunch.

Four A.M... It had taken until _four in the morning_ for the first round of robotic reinforcements to arrive at May’s testing site, and snap the frozen trainees back to battle stations. Their initial assault had been so simple as to set a low bar for the rest of the test’s difficulty, but the attacking drones sought to raise it to the point of demanding actual effort.

May’s semblance is perfect for infiltration, misdirection, and assassination, but being stuck on defense drops its utility significantly, once the element of surprise is snuffed out. While Winter, what’s-her-face, and Amin held the warehouse loading gate, May burnt her aura down to the dregs trudging out through the snow and sleet, chipping away at their back lines.

Her four-hour nap and subsequent chugging of the closest caffeinated beverage in reach have assured her aura levels are, at the very least, on the upper, yellow-ier end of orange. Not exactly the best, and a far cry from combat ready, but neither should it be a problem for a quick jaunt downtown this evening, especially if they stick close to the commercial sectors. Last week’s blizzard blew out a good three or four heating grid hubs, but main storefront strips’ve been shored up in the meantime, far faster than the neighborhoods out near the wall. _Priorities, right?_

May is understandably antsy as they wait for their ride, even more than the very first time the team had convinced the cream of Atlas’ crop to come down and kick around in the slush with them. Though a May-keover – Fiona can’t let the limp pun go, and no one has the heart to shut her down – is the key point on the itinerary, she’s starting out swaddled in her usual casual-outing style of _‘don’t acknowledge my existence’_ androgyny. Generic non-graphic pullover, gender-neutral earth tones, not too bright, but not too dark…

Bright would be Fiona. Beyond her enthusiasm, her, big, bold, puffy green coat makes her out to be a vibrant patch amid all the understated tones common to Solitas. Also: makes her look eminently squishable, and her two girlfriends have already exploited that fact to justify their hugginess.

Like Joanna, lifting the poor faunus off her feet just now, Fiona limply kicking her feet in the air and giggling as the taller woman compresses all that puff and ploof tight to her chest. Since May’d already called dibs on sweatshirts with her _dysphoria hoodie,_ Joanna’s seen fit to come out swinging with all the flair of a rugged Dust-bike rider, her black leather motorcycle jacket padded enough for warmth, but doing nothing to hide her physique.

Extending her arms to take her own turn with Fiona, Robyn easily accepts the bundle of sunshine once Jo passes her over. Robyn’s long, navy winter peacoat looks like it cost a couple thousand lien more than it actually did, another trophy in her cabinet of thrift shop achievements. If she weren’t so vocal and proud about being from Mantle, she’d fit right in with the glamour of Atlas. She lets Fiona down with a short laugh, burying her nose in curly white locks.

_Gods, these girls are something else. How in the fuck am I ever supposed to measure up?_

It occurs to May that she’s gawking. It _also_ occurs that despite their momentous plans, this isn’t really that far off business as usual. The three older girls all effortlessly vibing together, and distant, dreary Marigold dragging her feet not far behind.

Her thoughts leap to how she’d gotten ticked at that Marrow guy last night – if _anyone’s_ really following people around like a lost puppy, it’s her; shyly eyeing these walking wellsprings of emotional warmth with her tail between her legs, always chasing the older girls like she’d absorb that ephemeral _something_ they have if she just sticks near enough.

She knows, she _knows_ to some degree this is just the Bad Thoughts talking, but it doesn’t help with that feeling of otherness, that feeling of being the piece that doesn’t belong with the rest of the set. Back during initiation, she’d strained her brain trying to figure just how-and-why the hell the system had grouped her of all people with a gaggle of late-entry Mantle girls. She’s had three years to bitterly bat some answers around in her head; that following Atlas’ standard for _statistically balanced_ teams, therein lies the implicit notion that one of _‘him’_ could compensate for the presumed gap in skill between Atlesian prodigies and the less fundamentally privileged 'late bloomers'.

Turns out the only real late bloomer here was _her._

May’s snapped out of her sullenness when a loud gasp sounds out to her side; Fiona’s faunus ears seeming to pick up something the humans have yet to hear, and scampering to peer over the railing at the edge of the dock.

“Is that it? It looks like that’s it…” Fiona says thoughtfully to herself, then: “Yep, that’s it! Ride’s here, everyone!”

The mid-sized Atlesian passenger airship finishes its graceful arc down onto the landing zone, as bright orange holographic letters – _“Waste of Dust,” mutters Robyn, not for the first time_ – warn pedestrians to clear the area and allow debarking. The students aboard shuffle out from the ship, making way for those just starting their humble pilgrimage down to Mantle. Mostly natives heading back to familiar streets, with the occasional pack of snide, carefree upper-city partiers looking to indulge in the low-cover clubs, dirtier dives, and overblown tingle of _danger_ the poorer community below can offer them.

The team waits for most of the mob to move out of their way before starting towards the ramp, Joanna pinching fingers in her mouth and whistling to snag May’s attention. “Oi! You coming, or just planning to shimmy down the tether cables?”

May takes a deep breath.

_Here goes nothing._

* * *

“Everyone go ahead and set an alarm,” Robyn orders, glancing at the rarely-reliable daily departure schedule as the team hops off the boarding ramp. “Doubt we’ll split up, but in case we _do,_ I’d prefer we hit the airpad _before_ the last shuttle.”

The cold streets of Mantle smell like destitution, disenfranchisement, and a hint of antifreeze.

_Smells like home, for better or worse._

Fiona skips and spins ahead of the pack, her earnestness contagious enough to put some pep in their collective step. This is gonna be a fun night, she just knows it – The very first time they’ve got May with them, and not just ‘Marigold!’ And it’s not like their dates without her fourth-wheeling have been lame or anything, but this is just… exciting!

After all, even accounting for all their trips down over the years, there are still so many firsts left for May, and Fiona’s happy she and her girlfriends can be there to see it! The three of them have always gotten a drip feed of raw amusement watching May discover their birthplace like a wide-eyed tourist. It’s silly! Mantle isn’t the kind of place to GET tourists; even Vacuo probably sees more interkingdom leisure visits! ...And it’s _Vacuo!_

Some spots might take longer than others. Fiona catches herself remembering they’ve still never taken May down to the Crater yet, down to her old family home, but… she has to admit, there’s not so much to do there compared to the other districts, unless you wanna go sightseeing in Povertyland. Once or twice, she’s worried if the Crater might finally be what puts May off of Mantle, but they _know_ her now. The time they’d taken her by the fenced-off cordon around the rim, they’d seen a potent disgust darken her eyes. Not towards the people below, but the ones above who keep them there. The ones who raised her to think _that’s just the way it goes, that it’s where they belong._

Fiona just… really-really hopes they can convince May to come down here with them after graduation. Like, permanently, and stuff.

‘Cuz as much as Robyn’s still got that niggling, wiggling worry-worm about May having a change of heart and shooting straight into military service after graduation, that she’ll shake Ironwood’s hand and accept whatever commission’s on offer – and let’s be real, it’d be that spiffy new AceOps squad – Fiona’s not as nervous. May _already_ wasn’t who they dreaded she’d be from the start, and she’s come so far in the time they’ve known her, too!

At the same time… Keeping her out of an officer’s uniform isn’t quite the same as keeping the team together. She could always just… take her license and dip, catch the first airship out of Solitas, go move somewhere less oppressive in climate and culture. Like Vale! It’s a little selfish, she knows, but… Fiona really doesn’t ever want May to leave.

And after the events of last weekend _(so far dubbed ‘the incident,’ ‘the revelation,’ ‘that thing that happened,’ with little consistency)_ she knows Robyn and Joanna think so, too! All their other worries like midterm cramming, strategizing for this year’s Vytal Festival, or just the rigors of enduring Atlas’ bullshit kinda got booted to the back burner. She hasn’t been sticking her fingers in as many pies as Robyn, but like, Fiona _gets_ it? May’s been on her mind so much, too! Maybe she’s just feeling protective?

Right now, the most they can do is make more happy memories here for her, and hope for the best.

Fiona skids to a halt at a street corner and waits for their traveling band to reassemble. Here, the evening’s branching paths present themselves.

“So!” Robyn pipes in, pressing the button for the crosswalk and spinning to lean against the pole. “Options. We wanna get some grub in us first? Then clothes, then putz around a bit and find ourselves some fun? Or putz-clothes-food?”

“Clothes first,” replies May. “I don’t want to feel bloated squeezing into stuff that already might not fit right…”

Joanna gives her a shoulder-bump. “Like you couldn’t stand to put on a little weight, y’beanpole. I could snap you like a twig if I wanted.”

“And your point is? You could snap _anyone_ like a twig! You could snap the fucking _Headmaster_ like a twig, and he’s half-robot!”

“Pretty sure the term’s ‘cyborg,’ but go off, I guess.”

“Bitch.”

“Brat.”

Always content to enjoy the background noise of their silly bickering, Fiona pops open her scroll and starts comparing notes with their leader. “So, where are you thinking?”

“Well, we need… somewhere low traffic, ideally somewhere that won’t keep thorough enough records to snoop, if it comes down to it,” Robyn rattles off, tapping away some disqualified venues. “And not far from some half-decent food.”

Fiona hums and nods along, similarly scratching off a few of what constitute Mantle’s trendier stores. “There’s always the C and T? Plus, that’s like, only a quarter-sector from The Pig Site, and we’ve never dragged May there, have we?”

The WALK light blinks green with none of the pomp and circumstance of Atlas crosswalks, no pleasant musical tone, no hard-light signage.

“No, and there’s a first time for everything.” Pocketing her scroll with a flourish, Robyn lifts off the pole and proudly announces, “Ladies, we have our heading!”

* * *

The general décor of the East Mantle _Chic & ‘Tiques_ is a garish pileup of clashing styles, shooting for a bohemian air to justify the lack of consistency across the aisles of used furniture and apparel.

The lateness of the hour’s given them a fairly empty store to work with, which serves their purpose well. Personal enjoyment aside, this _is_ intended to be for May’s comfort, and strangers giving her the shifty-eye is hardly conducive to that goal.

Robyn steers the team to the womens’ section, ignoring the distant sigh of the gum-chewing teen working the till, already dreading the vast amounts of items she might have to re-rack.

They’ve never before gone clothes shopping on a trip where May’s along for the ride, and Fiona wonders if they’d missed out on another potential clue. Whether she’d have just griped about the wait, or taken a genuine interest… One they could use to pinpoint the sorts of fashions she’d actually _like_ to wear, because right now, they’re starting with squat!

Like, May’s always either been in the Academy men’s uniform, _which she hates,_ tailored suits, _which she hates,_ or the baggiest, scruzziest, most ‘don’t pay any attention to me’ getups she owns, which… she might not _hate,_ but are little more than a defensive countermeasure rather than something she actually likes!

The race begins in a flurry of fabric, May left sluggishly nosing around a rack of outdated skirts while the others rush to gather anything they can loosely eyeball as a decent fit, both in form and fashion.

May just rolls her eyes as Fiona wanders back to hold a blouse up to her body, silently gesturing for her to stand still. “I said I’d let you all pick me one outfit. ONE! I’m not trying to get a whole wardrobe right off the bat, where would I even put it?!”

Fiona, who at this very moment carries within her semblance enough of the team’s assorted junk to fill a two-car garage, stares at her blankly. Unblinking. Like one of those haunted dolls that always somehow end up at these same sorts of stores.

“Oh, now this, this I can see,” Robyn says to herself, and Joanna snorts out a laugh from where she leans over a rack of ripped jeans, giving a thumbs-up before returning to her own search.

May’s already blurted out a “No way, when would I even–?” before Fiona can get on tip-toe and see over into the next aisle over, where Robyn’s admiring one _obscenely_ sparkly, ankle-length silver evening dress. With _sequins._

“For when you take us out to one of those million-lien-a-plate fake charity get-togethers, of course!” purrs Robyn, holding up the hanger to match it with a fussy May. “We’ll be your plus-three.”

“One: even my _parents_ wouldn’t blow four million on a meal. Two: _Maybe it is_ pretty, but it would look like trash on _me,_ and thirdly: What in the hell would _you all_ be wearing? Do you even have formalwear?”

“Could just wear our dress uniforms. Perks of our militarized hell-state and its schoolgirl-to-soldier pipeline.” Even as she reluctantly returns the dress to the rack, Robyn brandishes a coy grin. “Unless you’d _like_ to see us all in glittery evening gowns? You’re the socialite; you could always pick our poison for us. We’re dressing you up tonight, it’d only be fair...”

Where Robyn’s teasing is of a sultry, smoky vein, Fiona has no qualms getting silly with it.

“We don't need formalwear, we just need them to know we're with you! We can all get matching letter jackets – ‘May’s BFF’s,’ big bold letters – It could have a little cartoon May face on it! Like a mascot!” she laughs, unable to help herself once the silly image pops into her mind’s eye. Alas, the _real_ May’s face is contorting into a buzz-killing scowl, so she cuts it there, still smiling as she mumbles a “Sorry.”

Once the racks have been thoroughly pillaged for each member’s personal picks, the four huntresses-in-training assemble by one of the changing rooms in the back of the store.

Robyn hums, foisting her gathered items onto Fiona’s teetering pile, and drapes an arm around her shoulders.

“Well, we can’t ALL fit in there. I mean, we could with a little bit of elbow grease, cooking grease, and some good old fashioned team spirit, but I think this is your ball, Fi. Care to do the honors?”

To be fair, they’re already flagrantly disregarding (or ‘coincidentally missing’) the posted signage designating one occupant at a time. Since... that rule can’t be so rock-solid! Moms would probably, like, take their toddlers into one when they’re picking out clothes for _them,_ and May’s brand new at girl-stuff, which makes her BASICALLY a toddler in spirit, right? So… so, it’s all good!

While years of suspicious looks and prejudice have given Fiona incentive not to use her semblance to carry their haul, once she’s dropped the bundle on the shelf inside the changing room, she quickly utilizes her semblance to absorb her own big, puffy coat into her palm. An artist needs room to work, no matter how fun she may be to squish!

“Okay, um, here, I’ll hold onto your scroll – Girl clothes tip? We get screwed on pockets – and I guess we can start with…” Fiona zwoops May’s scroll into her palm as it’s passed over, and begins to separate the chaotic pile of clothing into their designated archetypes.

Meanwhile, with all due caution not to whack Fiona in the face and a good deal of hesitation from her unease over her figure, May pulls off her hoodie and pinches the hem of her shirt beneath to do the same. She gets it most of the way over her head when she hears a stifled shriek from the changing room’s other occupant.

“What!? What’s wrong?”

“S-sorry! I forgot you wouldn’t be wearing a bra!”

May finishes tugging her shirt over her head and tosses it aside to find the sheep faunus spun to face the wall in embarrassment.

“What? Why would I be wearing– I don’t OWN any bras, Fiona! ...Or have anything for them to hold!”

Fiona can feel heat creeping up her face, and she stammers, “It’s! It’s still really intimate!”

“You’ve seen me topless, like, a thousand times!”

“That was when they were PECS!” Fiona whines. “They’re BOOBS now!” How can May not GET it!? They’re totally different territories! In her completely, 100% valid distress, she weakly, blindly bats a hand behind herself. A blow which lands, coincidentally, upon May’s bare chest. Fi squeaks again.

_Knock-knock._

“What’s all this commotion I hear about boobs?” Robyn asks from outside the stall. “You’ve piqued my interest, shortstack.”

Smugly, Joanna’s voice joins her, sounding like the two’re leaning right against the doorframe together. “And about May being topless? Because if she doesn't have any tops–“ _Whap._ “Ow! What?”

Okay, Fiona can acknowledge that one was pretty good, since she can see May’s face glowing like a Solstice-time shop window display out of the corner of her eye, _and it’s super-cute,_ but…! They’re trying to put her at ease, here, not make her uncomfortable! “Alright, you two! You can mess with her once we’re back at school! We’re on a mission right now!”

“Messing with Marigold’s an all-day activity, sweetheart,” says Robyn, deaf to the sustained groaning of the girl in question. “But a fair point.”

And there _is_ a lot of groaning and grumbling, as Fiona helps hustle May through the rigmarole of trying out the various items, and the inevitable dampening of her mood with every shirt that sits too tight in the shoulders, every pair of footwear that just won’t work.

Fiona’s not dense, so she gets why it must be a major hit to May’s morale, and gives her an understanding smile as they keep working through the stack. “It’s just like that sometimes,” Fiona comments, sliding a turtleneck back onto its hanger, “womens’ sizing is all _stupid_ kinds of inconsistent already, and used stuff? You never know how bad they got stretched or shrunk!”

This seems to make the remaining failures carry less of a sting, and the small victories all the more delightful. Once all their wheat’s sorted from the chaff, what remains is... er, color-coordinating the wheat? Wait, no, that’s… that’s dumb. Whatever, making an _outfit,_ that’s what’s important!

An eternity later, Fiona emerges from the confines of the stall to find Robyn and Joanna draped over one another on an antique wooden bench, _probably_ intended for actual sale, rather than the careless lounging of impatient huntresses. Their heads jerk up straight as the rustling catches their attention, and Joanna flicks open her scroll, camera mode at the ready.

“Ta-da!” cheers Fiona, hopping aside and gesturing broadly with both arms at the sliding door. When the person she’s trying to triumphantly ‘ta-da’ about doesn’t appear, she balances tenuously on one leg to bump the stall with her foot and pointedly coughs.

Without (much) further ado, the door slides open once more, and out steps May in what is, by the rest of the team’s assessment, the absolute shyest manner they’ve ever seen in their lives. _Adorable,_ Fiona thinks.

Her hair is the smallest change, for lack of wanting to screw around with wigs or extensions, but a little work goes a long way. Compared to the regulation rich boy standard she’d started with first year, she's steadily pushed the boundaries of ‘acceptable’ length. It's been a losing battle for the barber; she's held off longer and longer each time, the shaggy blue locks falling an inch beneath her chin now that Fiona’s given them a good brushing-out. The hairband placed on top is purely decorative, but helps accent the feminine flair.

With limited space, materials, and patience, the makeup job Fiona’d run was just a quickie; bit of concealer here, matte foundation there, just enough eyeliner on top to make them pop. Even pulled into a nervous grimace, her features are softer, less strained, like adding a layer of cosmetic gunk somehow peeled away a mask instead. Fi’ll have to give her the full demo some other night.

For her very first outing, May’s been re-outfitted with a cute, mellow, _inextricably girly_ brown faux-shearling style coat with warm wooly hemming. Peeking out just beneath, she’s sporting a plaid skirt of even darker mocha, barely making it halfway to her knees before it’s overtaken by deep navy fleece leggings, and a pair of replica sheepskin mini-boots neatly matching her top half.

Years ago, when May was still adjusting to sharing space with faunus _not_ busy toiling on a rich man’s service staff, she’d’ve balked at picking out something even tangentially sheep-product-adjacent while Fiona was present. Now, Fiona’s happy to say, she’s successfully drilled it into her doofy skull not to make a big deal of it. And besides, it means she gets to wear such cute, fuzzy stuff! Just look at her! It’s a treat!

“It... doesn’t look like shit, does it?” asks May, already convinced beyond all doubt that it does. “How bad is it? Be brutally honest.” She tries to read their faces, and in the process spots the scroll trained on her. May flips her tallest teammate the bird, but Jo snaps a pic anyway, turning the screen to show it off to their would-be model.

“You look fine, you nerd,” calls Joanna, “do a spin already!”

May huffs. “It doesn’t – The coat’s too long, it won’t LET the thing spin!” Try as she might, her hip-swishing only succeeds at fluttering the bottom of her skirt while the rest remains pinned underneath.

“Hm… It’s still missing _something._ ” Robyn clicks her tongue a time or two, then inspiration strikes. She snaps her fingers and dips out to a nearby aisle laden with outdated accessories, leaving her teammates to their confusion.

She reappears a few moments later with the fruit of her search – a simple, patternless cotton scarf in a burnt-ochre orange. "You're always sulking about the wind down here, so let’s keep you nice and warm."

Joanna doesn’t have any actual issue with the thing, but opts to raise one anyway, because heckling Robyn is one of her sacred romantic responsibilities. "That color, really? You’re not exactly a fashion maven _,_ Boss."

"It's on SALE." Robyn swoops right into May’s personal space as the latter woman finishes another unsuccessful skirt-twirl, drapes it around her neck, and begins to fit it. May, stricken still with a flustered panic from the softness – of the scarf, of Robyn’s passing touch – just swallows thickly and lets it happen without incident. “Well, it’s on sale, my card’s six stamps away from a half-off coupon, _and_ it looks cute on her, so you can kindly _stuff it._ ”

Stepping back from the May-Mannequin, she retreats to the bench and lifts her fingers to form a frame.

“...Yep. We did a good job, girls: that there’s one pretty Bluebird.”

Once again, the _Bluebird_ burns with a brilliant pink blush, muttering dismissals under her breath. Fiona might just have’ta ask to be forwarded some of those shots Joanna’s been snapping, especially if she manages to capture and preserve this precious moment in particular.

Because rather than tell them all to, in no uncertain terms, _‘fuck off forever and then some,’_ or even to just turn invisible to hide her emotional display, May... just stands there, flexing and fidgeting and wringing her hands, as a bashful smile blooms. The thick ice starting to crack during a long thaw.

In the categorization scheme of Marigold Smiles, it’s a super-ultra-rare. Fiona’s kept track: there’s the performative, cocky combat smile, the wry smirk after a successful roasting, the fake smile tied to denying her hurts, a soul-deep exhaustion with life… But a real one, 100% certified, mint-condition happy smile? Those, like, NEVER happen!

Gods, Fiona’s heart is just super-full right now; a comfy, familiar, first-sip-of-hot-cider kind of warmth. Whatever else happens tonight, this is already worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so. I dunno. wish that was better and cuter and longer and more interesting but... limits of an inadequate writer and all.  
> also, unrelated sidebar: we'd BETTER get ourselves a Happy Huntress reunion before the season is over because if ANY of these girls get hurt--  
> (Edit: ALSO, what is with AO3's system that I add a new chapter update and it inserts this one further down in the stack than ones that were updated way earlier in the day and I'd already gone and read? ...Huh.)


End file.
